The New "Normal"

It's hard to believe it's been almost a month and a half since Hunter was born and passed, yet it also feels like a lifetime ago. When my husband and family and I were preparing for our recent getaway to Bear Lake, I was so excited to get away. I didn't think that I'd forget everything that has happened, but I thought a change of scenery and having different activities going on while we were away would help take my mind off of things. I guess I had certain expectations, that this trip would help me get out of this rut I'm in. I didn't expect to have such an emotional time. There's a song by Kenny Chesney called "Who You'd Be Today" and one of the lines from the song says "Sunny days seem to hurt the most", and that couldn't be more true. As I was on the beach, watching families, seeing toddlers splashing around in the clear turquoise water, my heart ached. I was there with my family, but my family wasn't complete. I'm trying to adjust to this constant feeling of loss, and I know in time it will lessen, but even as more children (hopefully) join our family, there will always be the knowledge and pain of someone missing, a feeling of it being incomplete. I guess I'm starting to realize that it's just something that I am going to have to learn to face and deal with, and strive to find my new normal. It's hard to go out in the world and see families and babies and pregnant women, but the only other option is to just to lock myself up and disengage from my life and the world around me. And that really isn't an option. I want to live for him, not just exist. And I have to learn that it's okay and a natural part of the process to have breakdowns. It's okay to cry. It's actually a good thing to let it all out, rather than letting the hurt, anger, and sadness just stew. This is all such new territory, and though it's terrifying to explore the darker aspects, I realize you sometimes have to fight through the darkness to find the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. This isn't something that will ever go away, I won't ever get over it, but I will learn to live with it. The thing that people who haven't experienced this kind of loss don't fully realize is that you didn't just lose your child, you lost every hope, every dream, every plan you had made for your child's future and your family. The moment that doctor in the ER told me I was going to deliver my son, my world stopped. It was not the joyful experience I had anticipated and planned on. I had to go from planning a nursery to planning a funeral. Instead of picking out a bassinet, I had to pick out a coffin. When my child was brought into my hospital room the morning after he was born, he wasn't wrapped in soft blankets, wheeled in by a nurse,  he was carried in and given to me in a body bag with a tag on it. When you have an entire lifetime envisioned, and that lifetime is suddenly erased, there's an emptiness that weighs on you like a ton of bricks. Where you once knew where your life was heading, you now find yourself desperately lost. But I now have an angel who will be my compass and will guide my footsteps. I know the road ahead will be bumpy. I am already dreading the holidays because I was so excited to have Hunter's due date be right around Thanksgiving, and then have his first Christmas. Now he'll be having Christmas with our Savior. I try very hard to focus on where my son is, and the fact that he didn't have to know the suffering and pain that can accompany a mortal existence. But no heavenly thought can take away the physical ache that occurs when you just want to hold your baby. I realize I have been very open and honest about my experience with losing my son, and in doing so, I hope to help others who are traveling this same path with me, and possibly those who will experience this in the future. I hope that no one ever feels offended nor is it my intention to depress those around me with my story. I only want to tell my truth.